Daphne and Susan laughed. “Oh, funny! . . . No, no! . . . Wow, not even close!”
“Herbie Lansing is an independent film producer,” Patrice levelly informed us.
“That silly cap is for show,” Susan explained. “He belongs to a sailing club on Long Island and swans around pretending he’s a yachtsman to impress potential clients and investors, but really all he owns is a little Chris- Craft—”
“Okay!” Patrice sent a pointed glance toward the two young women.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Are you in some kind of pain?”
“I lost my smartphone!”
Automatically, we all looked on the ground, but there was no sign of it.
Patrice groaned. “I remember setting it down on the Garden podium. But the rain started before I finished my speech, and I got caught up in herding everyone inside. It must still be out there!”
“Won’t your device be ruined?” Madame asked.
“No, the podium has a shelf. It should be perfectly dry under there, but I’ve got to find it. My whole life is in that thing!”
“I’ll get it,” Susan offered.
“No, it’s my fault,” Patrice insisted. “You all go back to the party.”
Alicia touched her arm. “Do you have a trench?”
“No.” Patrice shook her head. “I didn’t think we’d get rain.”
“Take my Burberry. It has a hood.” Alicia handed over the still-damp coat. “Do you want an umbrella, too? There are several from guests in the cloakroom stand.”
“The wind’s blowing too hard,” Patrice said. “And there’s a canopy over the stage area.”
“Just be careful out there—the floor is slippery.” Alicia turned to us. “If you’ll all excuse me, I need a moment to freshen up.”
As Alicia made a beeline toward the ladies lounge, Patrice slipped on the pearl-gray trench, hurried to the Garden’s doors, and flipped up the hood. The dark rectangle of glass served as a stark backdrop for her light- colored figure—the perfect subject for a pen-and-ink. Maybe that’s why I stared at her image so long, or maybe on some level I felt a premonition.
Patrice cracked the door and a chilly gust swept down the corridor. The damp air swirled around my stocking-covered legs, sending shivers through me as she stepped outside.
The wind was still strong, but the steady rain was easing, its tattoo decelerating with a promise that waiting it out would be worth it. Beneath the narrow awning, Patrice lingered, watching drops turn to drizzle.
“Clare?” Madame called. “Are you coming?”
“Yes.”
Turning to go, I stole one last glimpse of the desolate image: Patrice Stone, arms folded, waiting for the wind to die.
Sixteen
As we moved back inside the crowded party room, Daphne and Susan drifted away, and I leaned toward Madame. “We need to find Maya Lansing’s husband.”
“Captain Herbie? Why, dear?”
“Because . . . the fake corpse we saw covered in fake blood this morning was a bodybuilder, and Maya is a fitness queen. There might be a connection. Alicia actually called her a ‘steroid-shilling witch.’”
“Coincidence?”
“Mike says in police work there are no coincidences. This isn’t exactly a criminal investigation, but . . .” I met Madame’s gaze.
Her silver-gray brows knitted. “You think Maya really put her own husband up to seducing Alicia?”
“It’s outrageous, I grant you, but Maya strikes me as the kind of woman who banks on outrage.”
“But why bring the Candy Man here? How could it help her? What would it accomplish?”
“For one thing, it would rattle Alicia, goad her into causing a scene while Maya can stand back and look poised and together.”
“Oh yes, I see. That would be disastrous—and diabolical.”
We found Maya easily enough. She was holding court near the tall windows, her stunning body dramatically backlit by New York’s cityscape. On the edge of the knot that had formed around her, I spotted my ex-husband. (Not a surprise. Next to coffee beans, half-naked women were Matt’s favorite stimulant.)
Every few seconds he stole a glance at the daringly undressed fitness diva. The photojournalists weren’t nearly as coy. Snapping pictures, they openly admired her display right along with the wholesale buyers, some of whom actually took personal cell phone shots.
“That Maya is one clever operator,” Madame whispered.
I wasn’t going to argue. Her topless stunt, plus a room of mostly male buyers, plus samples of our new aphrodisiac would add up to a stunning success for her attention grab—unless we could stop it. Unfortunately, as Madame and I crept closer, our hopes sunk. “Captain” Herbie Lansing was nowhere to be found.
“Dead end,” Madame whispered.
“Not funny.”
“Sorry, dear.”
“Listen, Maya’s husband is here somewhere. Maybe he stepped out to the restroom. Just keep an eye out for a cheesy yachtsman’s cap.”
Suddenly, Madame’s eyes lit up. She pointed.
“You see Herbie?” (I assumed.) “Where?”
“Not Herbie. Someone else. Someone I know you’ve been looking for . . .”
Turning, I finally saw him: Detective Michael Quinn. He stood near the samples table, talking with my daughter, his broad-shouldered form draped in the blue serge suit that I’d helped him pick out a few months ago. Expertly altered by an NYPD-friendly tailor, the coat was nipped and tucked to curve with his athletic physique while giving away no sign of his weapon (in Mike’s case, the gun and shoulder holster he wore like a third arm). As he turned, I noticed his tie, silver and blue silk—the one I’d helped his young son and daughter select for a special Christmas present.
Whatever Joy was discussing with Mike appeared to amuse him immensely. His lighthearted mood surprised me. Could he really be over his resignation so fast? Or was laughing with my daughter just a polite act?
“Go visit with your man,” Madame said. “I’ll keep an eye out for Captain Herbie.”
“Captain Herbie?” It actually took me a second to refocus, but refocus I did. Leaning close, I left Madame with a piece of advice: “When Alicia gets back here, warn her—in no uncertain terms—what could be coming her way.”
“Oh, I will. Don’t you worry, but . . .”
“But what?”
“If Maya’s husband does turn out to be Alicia’s Candy Man, what next?”
“Tell Alicia she should use the situation to her advantage. She needs to stay calm and composed. She should pull Maya aside and demand she leave the party right now and drop all attempts to cut herself in on the profits of Alicia’s product or else.”
“Or else what?”
“Or else Alicia will file charges.” When Madame tilted her head in confusion, I reminded her: “You know that martini the Candy Man pushed on Alicia last night?”
“The drink he brought to her hotel room?”
I nodded. “Alicia was smart. She pretended to drink the stuff but poured most of it into the flower vase. Then those two martini glasses vanished the very same time that Dennis did, and I got suspicious. I convinced Detectives Soles and Bass to have the alcohol in the vase tested for drugs. If they find any, the Candy Man can be
